Army of the People
by DXM
Summary: Four kindred from four walks of survival might have the once-in-a-unlifetime's chance of redeeming the city, but at what cost?
1. Walks of Life

Drink. Burn. Puke.  
  
It didn't always used to be this way. Vodka used to stay down after it's imbibed, exception being those inopportune nights where the woes of everyday life outweighed the need for sobriety. He remembers long nights of continually ingesting his clear goddess, his only refuge from reality, only to see it return while sprawled out on the bathroom floor. Nowadays, he barely overcomes the intricate burning sensation down his throat before retching, marking his drinking territory with great sporadic pink puddles.  
  
Dieter does it for the habit, the stinging of alcohol, not for the buzz or the drunkenness anymore. If Dieter wanted to screw himself over and drop his guard, he'd drain a junkie or a drunkard. Alas, these nights aren't crafted for fools. The ones who get caught draining crack heads are the ones that end up seeing the crack of dawn.  
  
Dieter looks up at the night sky through the thin perceptions of the alleyway. Storm clouds slowly glide over the starry backdrop, barely hiding the moon from view. Tiny droplets make their free fall to the earth in regular intervals, covering the buildings in a pearly glow. Dieter shakes the rain off the lapels of his trench coat, readjusting it for the impending rainstorm. He starts walking down to the main street, throwing the drained vodka bottle as an afterthought. The glass twirls through the air, nearly missing the drained motionless cadaver as it crashes into oblivion.  
  
---  
  
Lona fucked up, plain and simple. She pushed it out of mind as she pulled herself along the abandoned street, leaving behind a trail of crimson. Whatever had flashed out at her was quick, she barely had time to activate her innate powers of superhuman speed. It wasn't fast enough, something caught her leg and punctured it mid-stride. Whatever had cut her would have remained lodged in her calf, except for the fact that she was running: her own momentum managed to rip the foreign object through the remainder of her leg. All the muscles there were practically ruined, and she dropped to all fours and crawled frantically. She glanced over her shoulder... and her assailant was gone.  
  
She tried to remember the location of the nearest manhole. She knew these streets by heart, but it's a totally different scenario when the mind is preoccupied with survival instincts. The beast inside her was near the surface, vying to get out and have revenge on the nearest moving being. These things happen when one finds themselves dragging their mangled leg behind them before sunrise. Lona loathed the sunrise, it reminds her of last year, when she was free of her accursed state. Sucking blood to live wasn't exactly her idea of a good time.  
  
Gripping her hands around the manhole, she slid the lid off and dropped inside, neglecting to cover the opening. She descended and plopped into the sewage. The filthy murk rushed into her open wound, threatening to take residence there. Lona continually pumped blood to the open wound, in the hopes that it would heal within a matter of minutes like usual. Soon, she'd be able to walk to her communal haven, where she could describe the happenings of the night to her comrades.  
  
The wound wasn't healing.  
  
---  
  
"Gabriel? You in?"  
  
"Yes, I am in my study," Gabriel replied.  
  
Gabriel swiveled around in his chair, fixing his eyes upon the door to his office. He was wondering when Xan would arrive from his duty. Sipping from a blood flask, he watched as Xan entered the room, swiftly closing the door upon his entry. Xan's tribal robes swished and flowed with his fluid movements as he turned to face Gabriel.  
  
"Gabriel, they did attack this night."  
  
"Fuck."  
  
Gabriel turned to his laptop, one of many computers arranged around the rather small room. Stacks of printouts and folders covered whatever space his desks could offer, and plenty more stacks were arranged around the floor. Both Gabriel and Xan paid no attention to the room's disarray, as both of them spent many waking hours studying in this room. Gabriel would research using his many computers, where Xan preferred the adjoining library, full of large books with crisp pages.  
  
"Xan, it appears that someone has been influencing employees at the First National Bank here in town," Gabriel pointed out.  
  
Xan arranged himself so he could see the laptop screen clearer. "Isn't that one of your influential power bases?"  
  
Gabriel nodded.  
  
"Then the time we've been dreading is now," Xan pointed out. "If they have the audacity to attack one of your stronge---"  
  
"Xan, they are merely taking advantage of the situation. Was I in their place, I would be doing the same thing. However, it begs the question of why their activity would present itself now."  
  
Gabriel clicked his mouse a couple times, looking at some of the company's records. A look of confusion swept over his face.  
  
Xan noticed immediately. "What is it?"  
  
Gabriel shook his head and looked at the monitor screen some more. "A transaction took place this evening. Turns out that $450 from an account was taken and leaked into a corporate account. The corporate account is for one of the influential power bases that our enemies are holding. The employee that did the transaction was--," Gabriel paused.  
  
Gabriel looked up and turned to face Xan.  
  
"Apparently the employee who authorized the transaction was Howard Dumont, my link to First National. My ally has double-crossed me." Gabriel whispered.  
  
Xan turned quickly, grabbing the door handle and was ready to turn it when he felt a hand on his shoulder.  
  
"Careful, Xan. First I want to know who exactly coerced Dumont and why. If you eliminate him without knowing these things, then we have indeed seen the beginning of the end." 


	2. Red Eyes and Silver Cords

Dieter walked into his apartment and slammed the door defiantly in dawn's face. Damn it, another close call, Dieter thought, tossing his drenched trench coat on the love seat. He slumped down in the recliner. Must have been more alcohol in the bum than he realized. He recalled the image of the walking prey, how he didn't misstep one bit from the liquor store to the alley. Man knew how to hold his liquor. Unfortunately for Dieter, he underestimated just how drunk he was. Drained the whole guy dry, and got intoxicated as a result. Dieter liked being in control, which he definitely wasn't in his prior life. His path made sure he stuck to it.  
  
Dieter yawned, another human habit. He didn't need to breathe, but he found himself rushing blood to his lungs to simulate innate human behavior. Gasps, yawns, sighs, blood wasted for these artifacts from a past life. He could have used the blood for something else, perhaps flushing his cheeks to fight off his paleness, or to boost his muscles into pushing limits that mortals never knew existed. Perhaps, he could even go another night without needing to feed. Tiresome chore.  
  
Apathy pulls, the world slows. His accursed state yearns for rest. As the sun is born, he shall slumber, until such a time that the light rays forsake his side of the world once again, and he is reborn. Dieter slips into his dreams.  
  
---  
  
The gash lingered as Lona crawled down the passage. Left, right, left, slope up, flat expanse. Dirty sleeping bags and caked blankets littered the space, inhabited by unmoving silhouettes. Dragging herself to her sleeping corner, she gasped as her flesh caught on the floor cracks. One of the silhouettes stirred, turning towards the sound. It leapt from its resting place, crouched next to Lona, and picked her up in one swift motion, jarring her leg even more. Lona cried out, bloody tears gathering in her eyes. It dropped her down on her sleeping pad, its eyes red to compensate for the darkness.  
  
"Lona, are you alright?"  
  
Must have been Jory, light sleeper.  
  
"Lona, what's wrong?"  
  
Lona stuffed her incapacitated leg into the sleeping bag, trying best to keep her face straight for Jory, but her crimson tears betrayed her true feelings.  
  
"My... my leg... it won't heal... something came out.... of the dark..."  
  
Jory peeled back the top layer of the bag, getting a closer look at the wound. Lona winced as Jory probed and observed the damage.  
  
"Something got you good, Lona. Surprised you got here by yourself. Have you been pumping blood to the location like I taught you?"  
  
"Yes, I have, but nothing happened. Could I be doing it wrong? I'm not good at this, I'm such a fuckup," Lona croaked, wiping her cheeks with the back of her flannel sleeves.  
  
"No, Lona, don't talk like that. You haven't fucked anything up. This just means that something else attacked you, one that's capable of inflicting extreme damage on you. This is what I want you to do. I'll get Spike and Feral to get some blood for you, and I want you to remain completely still for the next couple nights. Concentrate on the wound, and try and heal it constantly. It will take some time, and a lot of blood, but it will heal," Jory said, and kissed Lona's forehead gently.  
  
"You'll be alright, Lona. Trust me."  
  
Jory started making his way back to his blankets.  
  
"Jory... Jory...," Lona whispered, trying not to wake the others.  
  
Jory returned to Lona's side.  
  
"What?" Jory inquired.  
  
"Listen.. I did something stupid. The note explains it," Lona fished in her jeans pocket and pulled out a crumpled ball. She pushed it into Jory's hand. "He would know what to do, he has my stuff." Lona rolled over to fall asleep, wincing as her leg shifted position.  
  
Jory read the note.  
  
Mistakes of the neonate, how amusing. Didn't your sire teach you anything? How stupid could you be? Putting our money into an account, don't you realize just how insecure that is? This isn't your damn past life, and it sure as hell ain't the Disney Channel. You better take that money out as soon as possible, or else our whole operation is screwed.  
-z  
  
Jory folded the paper neatly and placed it in his jacket pocket. D would know what to do.  
  
---  
  
Gabriel pondered in his chair, gaze fixed at a point beyond the laptop. Something didn't seem right about the whole transaction. 450 dollars isn't that significant of an amount for a Ventrue to be worried about, so why would someone try and influence his ally into draining the money? The corporate account belonged to Northwest Shipping Company, some operation based in the Seattle area. Who in the city has ties to Seattle?  
  
Perhaps it's not a Ventrue, as previously thought. It could be a Ventrue ally or contact, thinking it's in his best interests to make the transaction. It could be a payment for a delivery, or lack thereof. Goods could have been delivered, but the client might have refused payment. What better way to ensure payment than pulling a couple strings at the First National?  
  
What if the Lasombra were involved, attempting to make a move on the city and its infrastructure? Surely the Lasombra would find the temptation at an open assault on a Ventrue's holdings quite strong. Anger the Camarilla, force them to reveal themselves, strike out with shock troops when the havens are revealed. Screw the Lasombra, anybody could be trying to lure Gabriel out of his haven, albeit for different reasons. Lately Gabriel's landed on the bad side of the Ventrue of the city, and bad luck seemed to follow wherever he goes. If he could just reclaim his talisman, then things would be back to normal.  
  
Enough plotting, Gabriel determined. Glancing at the time on the laptop, he headed to the sleeping quarters.  
  
---  
  
Xan lingered in the corner of the library. Today he was to figure out what Dumont was thinking when he did the transaction. It would mean going into the daylight hours to do so, which required immense concentration on his part. The curse does not allow one to be awake while the sun has reign over the sky, except when one expends willpower to force themselves through the curse. It is an exceedingly difficult practice, one which Xan has practiced for years in order to perform reliably. It is necessary in his line of work.  
  
Incense scent, candle burning, Xan focused his thoughts inwards. He could feel himself, how his heart did not beat, no breathing to focus on. He contemplated the silver ball at his center, the one that held his spiritual self here on earth. He gripped it with his will, stretching it and molding it into a cord. He latched one end of it to his physical center, the other to his psyche. Slowly stretching out the thread, he allowed his thoughts to float away from his corporeal form. Exploring the library, Gabriel's office, the book store they used as cover, and finally on the street. Xan floated his way to First National.  
  
It didn't take long to pinpoint Dumont. Xan glanced at Dumont's aura, which appeared as a glowing light blue halo. Dumont was calm, perhaps he was unaware of the event that angered Gabriel so much. Xan floated in front of Dumont, gazing into his eyes. From here he could see the innermost thoughts of Dumont's soul, and could decipher any incidents that transpired in his entire lifetime. Xan probed through the events of the previous day.  
  
Dumont had no recollection of any transactions.  
  
Xan gazed further into his eyes, moving closer to Howard Dumont. He must have some idea of what occurred.  
  
Nothing. Memories of driving to work, getting caught in a traffic jam, spilling coffee on his finished report, botching up an encounter with a sexy coworker, but no recollection of the transaction.  
  
Xan figured he might not be focused enough. Maintaining an astral projection during daylight hours isn't something a normal kindred would attempt. It might be prudent to wait for night to fall, and try again. He didn't want to take the risk of anything happening to Dumont before finding any information, the reason why he attempted it now. Xan resigned and followed the silver cord back to his waiting body. He would rest on it, and hopefully nothing would happen to Dumont in the meantime. 


End file.
